Unforgiven
by Ancalime8301
Summary: Holmes returns from the dead and wants everything to go back to the way it was. Watson isn't putting up with that nonsense. Past Holmes/Watson. Warnings: character death, suicide.


Wordcount: 3,696

Warnings: character death, suicide

Summary: Holmes returns from the dead and wants everything to go back to the way it was. Watson isn't putting up with that nonsense.

A/N: Based loosely on Sarah McLachlan's new song, "Forgiveness." This is heavily book-based, but obviously AU, and I used a character from the movie so I wouldn't have to make up a name at one point.

Includes elements of the shkinkmeme prompt: _Holmes is drugged in such a way that he can't feel pain. He's injured and dying, and he doesn't know anything's wrong, so Watson doesn't tell him. They sit together, Watson quiet and contemplative while Holmes yammers on, until Holmes is finally silent forever._

Also fills the shkinkmeme prompt: _angsty, everything-doesn't-end-happy fic_

_Hearts broken, someone died, someone lied, someone hurt someone else, someone did something they can't be forgiven for, all h and no c, etc._

_Any pairing, multiple fillings encouraged, no crack please. Just something that doesn't end happily. Plz to be leaving me destroyed._ (I might've steered this fic to a happy ending if not for this prompt and my need to write ANGST at the time :p)

* * *

_Unforgiven_

Watson had agreed to accompany Holmes while the shock of his sudden appearance overrode all logic, but as the afternoon and evening progressed, the shock gave way to the familiar feelings of hurt and betrayal, with just a hint of hope that everything would return to how it used to be. But no, that was impossible. Too much had passed between them, even without this matter of Holmes allowing him to think he was dead.

It was sheer curiosity that compelled him to follow through with his promise, and that, at least, was not disappointed. Colonel Moran was an impressive figure, and it gave him no small amount of satisfaction to play a role in his arrest. Then Holmes was baiting Moran with words and Watson felt weary, already tired of Holmes' games.

When Holmes proposed they discuss the matter over cigars in his Baker Street study, Watson declined. "I'm sorry, Holmes, but I need to return home. It has been a long, trying day and I have an early appointment with a patient tomorrow."

Holmes looked surprised, then troubled, but refrained from pursuing the matter in front of Lestrade and Moran. "Of course, Watson. Let me call you a cab."

Watson passed the ride and several hours at home in deep thought, considering the situation and wondering what Holmes would expect of him. Three years was a long time when it followed two years of your former lover pushing you away, and between loving (and losing) both Mary and Holmes, Watson had put the past behind him. Put Holmes behind him. The memory of their intimate years held no heat and very little pain, just fondness and nostalgia for a time that could never be recovered.

It had been a relief when Holmes had died, truly. He could give all his attention to Mary -as he had given her his heart- and not wonder if Holmes were taking care of himself. For he did wonder, despite his best efforts not to; worrying about Holmes was too ingrained in his very mettle as a doctor and devoted friend.

Holmes' return neatly upended all that. His return no doubt meant he expected Watson to return to his side at least during cases if not outside of them, but Watson would refuse.

.

Holmes was sitting on the top step when Watson opened the front door to fetch the morning paper. He sprang up when the door opened and stood there patiently, his hat in his hands.

"What do you want, Holmes?" Watson asked wearily.

"Mrs. Hudson is sorry she didn't see you yesterday," Holmes said. "And I wanted to see if you were available for lunch, since we didn't have the opportunity to talk last night."

"You might have sent a telegram." He leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms so he wouldn't give in to the sudden temptation to do something foolish, like grab him and kiss him. Evidently Holmes' nearness and his recent celibacy were sufficient to rouse feelings he'd thought long since banished.

Holmes looked down at his hands fidgeting with his hat brim for a moment. "Yes, but I also wished to enquire whether you are still . . . upset with me due to my absence."

"That could have waited until lunch," Watson retorted.

"Not if you turned down the invitation," Holmes shot back.

Watson had to concede that point. "No, I will not lunch with you, Holmes. And no, I am not upset with you because of your absence. I'm upset with you because of your return and your apparent presumption that I will once again drop everything to follow your every whim. I have been done with you for a long time, Holmes. I have my own life to lead now." A carriage pulled up and provided him something to look at besides Holmes' pained expression. "Please leave, my patient is here."

"Watson-"

"Good morning, Mrs. Morrison!" Watson called. "Don't worry, he's leaving." He gave Holmes a pointed look.

Holmes beat a hasty retreat, tipping his hat to the gaudily dressed matron as he went.

.

The first telegram arrived in the middle of Mrs. Morrison's appointment: COME TO TEA TODAY QUERY HAVE PITY ON MRS HUDSON FINAL STOP. Watson rolled his eyes, balled it up, and returned to his patient.

The next arrived precisely one hour later, just after Mrs. Morrison had left. It was a duplicate of the first, but this time Watson sent a terse reply: NO. He left on his rounds, certain that he would return to find more telegrams awaiting him.

He was correct. But he also came home to find Holmes waiting for him, this time seated nonchalantly in the study. "The maid let me in, I hope you don't mind," he said around his pipe stem.

Watson poured himself a small measure of brandy. "I do mind."

"Why?"

"Because you're a nuisance, Holmes. You do what suits you, when it suits you, and never mind how it affects anyone else."

Holmes looked thoughtful. "I am uncertain what I have done that has upset you so greatly, but I am sorry for whatever it might be."

"No, you aren't." He sat behind his desk.

"I'm sorry about Mary," Holmes ventured cautiously, trying to pinpoint the root of Watson's strange behavior.

"You should be."

A long pause. "I don't understand."

"I would never have married her if you hadn't pushed me away. With no explanation, I might add. I loved you, Holmes, and you had me believing you loved me too."

"You don't love me?" Holmes asked softly.

"I did once. I can't anymore."

"Why?"

"Love has to be returned, Holmes, if it's going to survive. Mine wasn't. So I moved on."

"But I do love you," Holmes protested.

Watson chuckled humorlessly. "No you don't."

"I do! Please, let me prove it to you. What would you have me do?"

He almost sounded desperate, and Watson wasn't quite sure what to make of that. His request was the same, regardless. "Please leave, and stay away. Perhaps in time we can be friends again, but for now seeing you is too painful." Keeping his eyes on Holmes' and watching his face blanch while he said it was the most difficult thing he had ever done.

"As you wish," Holmes said resolutely, his hands trembling slightly as he pushed himself out of the armchair. "I can see myself out."

.

That night, like the night before, Watson dreamt of Holmes, of kissing him, of touching him, of sleeping with him, of all the lovely days -and nights- they had passed in one another's company during those blissful years.

He couldn't remember when, exactly, he first realized he loved Holmes, but evidently Holmes had realized the same about him around the same time, for they both tried clumsily to broach the subject several times before they understood one another. Even so, they proceeded cautiously, first stealing touches, then kisses, then finally, months later, sleeping together. Holmes was an attentive lover, his observational skills serving just as well in the bedroom as they did when there had been a crime.

It had been wonderful.

It seemed too good to be true.

And it was.

For five years they were as happy as could be, or so Watson had thought. Evidently Holmes had doubts, for he started to rebuff Watson's gestures of affection and indulge in cocaine far more heavily, to the point of taking it thrice daily for some months. Watson questioned his behavior; Holmes answered evasively or not at all and would lock himself in his bedroom if pressed on the subject.

Enter Mary Morstan. The attraction had been immediate and mutual.

Watson had some lingering doubts about leaving Holmes in this way, but then Holmes remarked that emotions, particularly love, were opposed to true reason, which he placed above all things. His doubts about marrying Mary were instantly banished and his doubts about Holmes' feelings for him were confirmed, all in one devastating comment.

He wasn't sorry for leaving Holmes. He was going to be with someone he loved and who loved him in return.

He kept touch with Holmes periodically after that, but nearly broke away from him entirely over that Culverton Smith nonsense. The things Holmes said, the lack of trust in him . . . it was almost too much. But still he remained, still considered himself Holmes' friend, and when Holmes was lost at Reichenbach, he grieved.

What a cruel joke that turned out to be!

Thoughts of Holmes and doubts about how to proceed kept Watson restless and irritable for days. Holmes remained true to his word and did not darken Watson's door again, though he sent telegrams at least daily. When the telegrams went unanswered, letters arrived in the post. All were variations on the same theme: Forgive me, Watson. Watson, I miss you. Watson, will you please answer? I love you, Watson (that only came via post; Holmes wasn't stupid). I have a case, will you accompany me?

Watson stopped reading them after the first week. He glanced over them just long enough to determine they were from Holmes, then tossed them in the fire. He should have been more explicit when he asked Holmes to stay away and specified that he did not wish to hear from him, either.

.

Such had been the state of things for nearly three weeks when a cab pulled up to Watson's home and Holmes went up to the front door. Watson, upstairs to change his shirt and waistcoat after having an unfortunate accident with some gravy at lunch, saw the cab from the window and sighed. He disregarded the knocking, and watched Holmes' bowed back as he went back to the cab, where he joined a policeman, and they departed. Probably Lestrade, Watson guessed, given that he was willing to detour out to Watson's home while on business.

Lestrade paid him a visit the following afternoon at teatime. Watson listened politely as he mentioned that they had come by the previous day and told Lestrade that he'd been out on rounds and the maid must have been at market (she really had been). Lestrade expressed some concern about Holmes' state, both mentally and physically; it seemed he hadn't quite been himself since his return.

Of that, Watson had no doubt. He promised to stop in at Baker Street and check on Holmes, see if he could find out what was the trouble, and let Lestrade know if there was anything the Yard could do to help.

When Watson closed the front door behind his visitor, he grimaced. Well, there was nothing for it; he would drop in on Holmes the next day.

He arrived in early afternoon after finishing his rounds. Mrs. Hudson was quite pleased to see him, and he sat down to a cup of tea with her. She scolded him for not coming around more often, and nodded when he told her why he'd come. "He's not used to being back yet, I think," she commented, then gave him a shrewd look. "Is staying away really necessary, Doctor?"

"Yes, for now," he said, and sighed. "I'm not used to him being back yet, either. I just need some time."

"How will you get used to him being back if you never see him?"

It was a good question, and it still echoed in his ears as he trudged up the seventeen steps. He knocked, but there was no answer, so he let himself in to the sitting room. It was dim, but he could see enough to know the room remained unchanged from the last time he had been there, however many years ago. He turned up the gas so he could take a better look at Holmes, who was lying on the settee, apparently asleep.

Holmes still had the unhealthy tinge to his complexion that Watson noticed during his dramatic reappearance, and he seemed almost shrunken, somehow. Watson knelt and felt for his pulse; rapid, and his eyes gleamed through nearly-closed lids. Cocaine, then. As he'd expected. He placed the arm back and stood, kicking something under the settee in the process. A cocaine bottle, he guessed. He hoped it was full.

"Watson?" Holmes' eyes were fully open now, and fixed on him.

"Yes, Holmes. Lestrade is worried about you, so I promised to take a look at you."

Holmes snorted. "Lestrade. You ignore my telegrams, but you come because Lestrade asked you to. How kind."

"Holmes," Watson started, then stopped, not sure what to say or how to say it. "I'm sorry it has to be this way," he said finally.

Holmes flicked his hand dismissively. "I will manage."

"I don't know that I'd call this managing. You don't look well, Holmes."

"I am carrying on as I have always done. That you are not here to badger me is the only difference."

"Would you like me to stay for dinner and badger you to eat, then?" Watson asked with exasperation.

"No, I think not. Mrs. Hudson is sufficient in that regard."

"Then I will leave you to your needle. But I do recommend that you eat more, Holmes. You won't do yourself or your clients any favors by passing out." He turned and started to leave.

"Are you saying that as a doctor, or as my friend?"

Watson hesitated in the doorway. "Both," he admitted, and closed the door.

.

The flow of letters and telegrams stopped. The only word of Holmes came via stories in the paper about murders and other serious crimes solved by Lestrade, Morton, or Gregson, and Watson knew Holmes was likely to have been involved. Every so often he even checked the agony columns for a message from Holmes, but there was none.

It was a relief, knowing that Holmes, too, had gone ahead with his life. Not that Watson would admit to worrying about him.

Another month passed and his time of mourning for Mary had ended before Watson saw Holmes again. It was a chance meeting outside Simpson's, Holmes on his way out after lunch and Watson passing by on his way to the chemist's. Holmes, of course, was the one to notice Watson hurrying by, and he caught him by the elbow.

Watson turned at the touch. "Holmes! How good to see you," he said, and meant it. "You're looking well."

"As are you," Holmes replied. "Wearing all that black didn't suit you."

Watson didn't mention that he'd worn mourning for Holmes, too. "You have been keeping busy, judging by the stories in the papers."

"The Yard needs the help, as you well know," he said dismissively. "I fear I have an appointment to make, but shall I see you again soon?"

"Yes, I should think so," Watson answered, and smiled. Holmes smiled back, relaxing almost imperceptibly.

They shook hands and parted ways; unsurprisingly, a telegram awaited him when he arrived home, proposing they have dinner that evening. Watson replied with regrets, already having an engagement that evening, and suggested the following night. Holmes immediately assented.

.

Watson was unaccountably nervous as he stepped out of the cab in front of Simpson's at the arranged time. There was some awkwardness initially, but once they'd both had some wine and the food arrived, the conversation flowed freely and it was almost like old times. Holmes had indeed been busy, and was willing to tell Watson as much as Watson was willing to hear.

They parted ways afterward quite amenably, and Watson went home feeling that it had gone quite well. Most surprisingly, he found himself looking forward to renewing his friendship with Holmes.

For two months they continued to meet periodically, for lunch or dinner or afternoon tea as their schedules would permit. Watson spent some time at Baker Street, Holmes occasionally came to Kensington, and life hummed agreeably along. Watson could tell Holmes wanted to ask him to move back to the flat, but something kept him from actually asking. It was just as well, since Watson would have said no. He wasn't prepared to go that far. Yet. Maybe someday he would be ready.

About mid-July they were taking tea at Baker Street when Holmes mentioned a new case that had come up, something about a steam ship. Watson wasn't entirely paying attention, occupied with puzzling over the strange symptoms of one of his patients, but he did catch Holmes' mention that the case would likely involve more danger than usual. He frowned. "Will you have assistance from the Yard?"

Holmes assured him he had Lestrade's full, albeit unofficial, cooperation, and Watson left it at that. He hurried off as soon as he finished his tea in order to perform additional research for his patient's sake.

The next afternoon a telegram arrived from Holmes. Watson did not receive it until the following morning, for his patient had taken a turn for the worse and he stayed at her bedside until her symptoms stabilized. When he finally read the telegram, he immediately sent his apologies, for Holmes had been requesting his assistance with the matter of the steam ship. He received no response and assumed Holmes found help elsewhere, most likely from Lestrade.

Watson thought nothing of it when he didn't hear from Holmes the next day either, knowing such things were unpredictable and Holmes would contact him when he was able.

He was preparing to go to bed when there was an insistent knocking at his front door. Pulling on his dressing gown, he wearily went to answer it. Constable Clark was on his doorstep, fidgeting anxiously. "Lestrade sent me to fetch you, sir," he said briskly. "Mr. Holmes has been badly wounded."

Watson felt a sickening lump in his stomach. "Come in, just give me a moment."

He dressed as hurriedly as he was able, and stuffed his bag full of bandages and antiseptic. Within five minutes, he and Constable Clark were in a cab speeding toward the waterfront.

The burning remnants of a ship floated not far offshore, and a knot of people had gathered on the docks, small craft shuttling back and forth between ship and shore. Watson hurried toward the knot, and Constable Clark cleared a path in front of him to Holmes.

Holmes. Another doctor was already there, trying in vain to halt the bleeding from his many ragged wounds, no doubt incurred in whatever event caused that ship to burn. Watson fell to his knees at Holmes' side and grasped his hand.

"Watson," Holmes said weakly, smiling at him. "Lestrade said he sent for you."

"Yes," Watson replied, his voice breaking. "I'm sorry, I didn't get your telegram in time."

"Don't fret, Watson. I knew it may not find you right away. Did you determine what was ailing your patient?" He coughed, and there was a trickle of blood at his mouth.

Watson nodded, then pulled out his handkerchief and wiped the blood away. The other doctor met his questioning glance and shook his head, lifting Holmes' shirt enough for Watson to see the extensive injuries. Watson felt tears course down his cheeks as he returned his gaze to Holmes' face.

"Don't cry, Watson," Holmes whispered. "I feel fine."

"I'm glad," Watson said, smiling tremulously and squeezing Holmes' hand. "Tell me what happened."

Holmes obliged, but Watson didn't hear a word he said, instead focusing on Holmes' animation, his expressions, as he related what had transpired aboard the _Friesland_. He had missed this, and now . . . now he would never have another chance. At length Holmes trailed off, frowning. "Watson, I can't feel my legs. Why can't I feel my legs?"

"I don't know," he said honestly, glancing briefly at the offending appendages. The profuse bleeding was slowing, and Watson knew it would be a matter of minutes. The hand he held was already growing cool. "I'm sorry, Holmes. For everything."

"Stop apologizing, Watson," Holmes admonished, his voice nearly gone.

Watson drew Holmes' hand up against his cheek and couldn't keep himself from cupping Holmes' face with his other hand, keeping his eyes trained on Holmes' as they slowly closed.

Holmes sighed and grew still.

The tears that had been flowing freely now blurred his vision. He kissed the back of Holmes' hand and gently set it to rest on Holmes' chest. Then Lestrade was murmuring in his ear and pulling him to his feet, propelling him away from the body as he wept bitterly.

.

The funeral was a small, private affair, the bulk of the populace of London not yet aware that Sherlock Holmes had returned from his previous death. They never would know, now.

Watson tried to return to his previous life, mourning and all, but found it more difficult than he had imagined. Finally he decided to sell his practice, for his patients were no longer receiving the attention they deserved, and moved back to Baker Street for lack of any other convenient options.

Mrs. Hudson willingly doted on him, but it wasn't enough. The rooms lacked their former comfort without Holmes occupying them. Holmes had left him everything -again, as he hadn't changed his will after the last time- so Watson did not need to worry about being able to pay the rent, not that it mattered.

This time there would be no miraculous return.

Moving back to Baker Street may not have been wise, for everything reminded him of Holmes. All he could think about the way Holmes had played for him on the violin, their first kiss here in this very sitting room after returning from a particularly harrowing case, locking the door in the middle of the day so they could have sex on the settee, Holmes waking him up in the middle of the night to kiss him and tell him he loved him.

Watson wept until he had no tears left, then continued to weep. Heaven help him, he did still love Holmes. But now it was too late for that realization to do any good, and he could never forgive himself for being so damned foolish.

Six months to the day after Holmes' death, Mrs. Hudson found her lifeless lodger in Mr. Holmes' bed, an empty bottle of morphine and a syringe beside him.


End file.
